


I Come To You (I'm Not Afraid)

by qb_cereal



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, Hair Braiding, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Poetry, Recovery, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period, Sharing a Bed, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23609341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qb_cereal/pseuds/qb_cereal
Summary: A series of Wednesdays in a cottage in ScotlandorWhen you’ve truly seen someone, even their lies aren’t betrayals.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 21
Kudos: 284





	I Come To You (I'm Not Afraid)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Without Question" by Elton John.

_Fourth Wednesday_

It’s after Jon’s second walk to the village grocer that he comes back looking furtive and shifty. Martin meets him at the door to take the bags from his hands and Jon doesn’t meet his eyes, wearing the tight smile he uses for strangers.

Martin ushers him inside with an arm around his shoulders and shuts the door against the cold.

“All right?” he says fondly, hoisting the shopping onto the kitchen counter as Jon shrugs out of his coat.

“Fine, fine,” Jon answers dismissively. “Just cold.”

“Did they, er, not have honey?” Martin says when the bags are half-empty, and Jon stiffens, hunching his shoulders up around his ears.

“It’s. Well, it’s a bit dear,” he says haltingly.

Martin can feel the smile forming across his face and can’t quite stop it: Jon was stridently vocal about the superiority of honey in tea when they first arrived, but it tastes practically the same as sugar to Martin.

He wants to say _it’s fine, you wonderful, stupid man. You can have your privacy. I trust you._

But he doesn’t want to see Jon tense and wring his hands and stumble over an explanation. And, simpler and baser than that, he doesn’t _need_ to know, doesn’t need to tease out the softer parts of Jon and put them under a microscope. It’s enough that Martin knows they’re there.

He gets the fond smile under control by the time Jon turns back toward him, fidgeting with the paper of the receipt and finally tucking it into a drawer.

“Cards or crossword?” Martin offers lightly, and some of the tension lifts from Jon’s face.

“Cards,” Jon says, even though they both know he always loses when he’s distracted.

The routine of the day returns to normal from there. Martin busies himself making tea while Jon gets the deck of playing cards, because Jon still feels awkward about his clumsy shuffling technique since... since Jude Perry. They play a few games of gin and chat idly about the weather until Jon makes a dry comment about Martin’s poker face and Martin fires back with “then why aren’t you winning?”

“You know what my luck’s like,” Jon scoffs, though it’s clear he’s biting back a smile.

“Sure you’re not Irish?” Martin teases. “Maybe we should play an easier game, hmm?”

“Oh, is that what you want?”

Jon sweeps all the cards toward him and waves Martin’s hand away when he offers to deal.

“Let’s see how good you are at Go Fish, then.”

Martin laughs at the idea, knows he’s grinning like a schoolboy in love, and doesn’t even try to stop it.

“Have you got any jacks?” he says and grins harder at the serious way Jon examines his hand.

“No jacks,” he says. “Go fish.”

Martin rolls his eyes as he draws a card, and Jon straightens up in his seat, watching him intently.

“ _Do you have any sevens?_ ” Jon intones.

“Yes,” Martin says immediately, before he can even look at his hand, and then he stops. “Did you just—?”

“Oh dear, did I?” Jon says innocently, holding out his hand for the card.

“I wasn’t going to cheat!” Martin protests, already laughing at the absurdity as he flicks the seven at Jon’s chest. ‘Why would you...?”

“Can’t be too careful.”

Martin tosses the rest of his cards at Jon in offended forfeit and drops his head down on the table, laughing until he has tears in his eyes.

—

Jon is still looking faintly smug and thoroughly relaxed when they climb into bed that night, probably helped along by the fact that Martin kept breaking into giggles at least half a dozen times in the course of the evening. Martin settles close to the wall and Jon takes the other side of the bed, facing outward like he’s on guard.

“Jon?” Martin murmurs, looking over his shoulder.

“Mm?” Jon answers.

“C’mere?” Martin says softly.

And, with the routine completed, Jon slides over to align himself against Martin’s back, tucking his face into Martin’s shoulder and wrapping an arm around his middle. Martin takes his hand, squeezes it once and says good night.

It had only taken them a handful of days to navigate that particular routine when they first arrived at the safe house. When Martin had commented on the chill, Jon had offered to check the linen cupboard for more blankets, until Martin had finally pointed out that blankets could _insulate_ but they didn’t _produce_ heat like another person did. That logic seemed to convince Jon, but he still took up a defensive position every night until Martin invited him closer.

In another person, that hesitance might have meant reluctance or even regret, but Martin knew Jon by this point, knew the standoffish kind of politeness that arose when Jon was unsure of his welcome. And when Jon curled around Martin, Martin could feel him relax as well. Between the two of them, the touch was a constant, silent call-and-response of assurance and reassurance that made Martin want to write poetry about birdsong. _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here…_

So still they slept in the same bed and still Jon held Martin until they fell asleep and still Martin felt desperately, almost frantically, grateful for him. It had been four weeks since Jon had saved him, and Martin knew his patience with this kind of trite and childish comforting could run out at any time. That would be okay, of course, but until then Martin was determined to treasure every moment he had.

Other routines had taken longer to settle. Martin had more experience with cooking and was perfectly prepared to make dinner for them both every night, so he waved Jon off when he’d first offered to help out. It took almost another week before Jon’s discomfort reached the point of asking again, and Martin had finally recognised the doubt in his eyes. The fear. The urge to offer, to contribute something material and quantifiable that couldn’t be overlooked. Jon was... trying to defend his place in the safehouse.

The sudden clarity when Martin realised made his stomach turn, but he’d just casually suggested they alternate nights. The look of relief in Jon’s eyes as he stiffly agreed to the arrangement was all too plain. That was enough. That was what Martin could give him, and what Jon would allow without a fight.

So there were days when they just ate soup or toasted sandwiches or beans, and some days they would experiment more or less successfully with a roast, or a curry, or once even pancakes for dinner.

There were days when Martin wanted to tell Jon to stop being stupid, that he’d saved Martin’s life and the safehouse was his and that Martin was lucky Jon was gracious enough to let _him_ stay. But none of that would help Jon to relax or feel safe or even really understand the depth of Martin’s gratitude, so Martin _tries_ to be smart about how he takes care of Jon. It’s the most important task he’s set himself.

—

_Fifth Wednesday_

Jon pulls on an impossibly soft pair of woollen gloves on his way out the door and he gives Martin a crooked half-smile before he leaves. Martin’s heart skips a beat and he’s sure he’s blushing as Jon disappears.

Gifts will only catch Jon’s interest if they are useful, which Martin had guessed easily. What he hadn’t guessed was how intense Jon would immediately become about the items he was given, including demanding Martin explain every detail of how best to wash and dry and care for the gloves as soon as he’d tried them on. Martin was halfway tempted to find the old woman’s market stall again and buy a pair for himself, but the look on Jon’s face was more than enough to keep him warm.

He’s being sappy, absolutely, embarrassingly corny, and he doesn’t really care. He has his notebook on the couch next to him and a pencil on the end table, and he’s planning on being even more ridiculously saccharine in about five minutes. Best to get it out of his system before Jon gets home.

> Trust  
> A blackbird sings, and his mate answers.  
> A wolf howls, and her pack answers.  
> A woman reaches out her hand, and her wife takes it.  
> Here I am. There you are.  
> In darkness, sound is as sure as touch.  
> Halcyon, do you copy? Atthis, I copy.  
> A dove coos, and his mate answers.  
> You reach out your hand, and I take it.  
> There you are. Here I am.  
> I reach out my hand and you take it.  
> You take my hand and I squeeze yours.  
> I squeeze your hand and you squeeze back.  
> Here we are.

It’s a scrawl of crossed-out words and indecision by the time he finishes it, but it’s not bad. It feels like a step in the right direction, toward what he’s trying to say.

It’s only been an hour since Jon left, so Martin looks for something else to keep him busy. It’s far too early to start worrying.

He knows splitting up was the sensible thing to do. Neither of them is particularly well-suited to staying indoors for long stretches of time, especially without an internet connection or at least phone reception. And the pair of them together would be far too recognisable, an unnecessary risk. Anyone would remember the sight of a heavily-scarred man with a long ponytail walking next to a 6’3 man with streaks of white in his hair. So that was it. Martin knew Jon was trusting him not to disappear, and Martin was trusting Jon not to slip into Beholding around the locals.

He half-heartedly tidies the kitchen, checking expiration dates and making space for any food Jon might bring home, but his mind keeps ticking over the same question. Could Jon be hurt, seeking pain relief or treatment for some old injury he hasn’t mentioned?

Jon has lied to him dozens of times in the course of their acquaintance, Martin knows. But they were overwhelmingly lies like ‘I’m fine’ or ‘I can handle it’ or ‘there’s a perfectly rational explanation for that’. Never lies that would harm anyone else. Jon shored up the defenses of any of his friends, would step in front of a bullet for them, had walked into the Buried and then the Lonely with his head held high, and Martin still couldn’t be entirely sure if it came from a desire to prove himself by being a hero, or if all of Jon’s underlying motives were self-destruction.

So he knows there is no danger to him or the local village that Jon is hiding, but if Jon himself was injured and thought he could keep it from affecting Martin by hiding it? That possibility is still very much on the table.

But, well.

Jon is worth it. All the worry and heartache and loss that come with being in his life. The blood and the fog and the worms and the nightmares. The prickliness and the defensiveness and the _fear_. Jon is worth every second of it.

Martin smiles distantly at the closed front door and tidies his things from the coffee table. Jon isn’t there as a puzzle for him to solve. Jon is there as a puzzle for him to love.

And maybe the sappy, over-dramatic feelings aren’t entirely out of his system yet.

—

There are more oddities in the shopping when Jon brings it home: a package of gingersnaps—Martin’s favourite—and one of ordinary digestives, but no chocolate biscuits for Jon. Still no honey. Ordinary black tea instead of the Yunnan tea Jon had liked.

It isn’t as though they’re short on money—Martin had been squirreling away Peter’s petty cash for months—and there is no scrimping on anything Martin prefers. It doesn’t feel right.

“If there’s anything out of stock,” Martin says, still facing the fridge as he rotates the older fruit to the front. “Just let me know and I can try to find it on Friday.”

“Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind,” Jon says blandly, so Martin doesn’t ask any further.

He turns the radio on when they’re done, sitting down on the couch to catch up on the news and weather. It’s growing colder already, and they’ll need more blankets on the bed if it snows overnight. Jon sits down next to him, leaving most of the cushion at the other end empty in favour of leaning against Martin’s side.

“Thanks,” Martin says with a smile, feeling warmer and safer all at once. Jon doesn’t reply beyond a curt nod but he doesn’t move away either.

There’s no chance of snow predicted for the night or the following day, and nothing in the news that sounds more supernatural than usual, which is exactly what Martin wants to hear. The news ends and the station shifts back to music, playing something slow and sweet and Martin catches the way Jon wrinkles his nose out of the corner of his eye.

“Not a fan of this one?” he says, and Jon sighs.

“Terrible memories,” he says solemnly, tipping his head back against Martin’s shoulder. “High school.”

“That must have been, what? The early nineties?”

“Someone got the bright idea to hold a dance in ninth grade,” Jon says over him, ignoring the jibe. “Mrs Mendes, taught biology most of the time, had her heart set on teaching two dozen fourteen year olds to _waltz_.”

Martin frowns and cocks his head toward the radio.

“To this? It’s not really... dance music, is it?”

“Exactly,” Jon says, waving his hands in exasperation. “It’s ludicrous. She kept saying it was a modern song, so we’d like it.”

“Makes me very glad I avoided that,” Martin says sympathetically.

“Learning to dance in high school?”

“Learning to dance,” he admits, with a wry smile. “Somehow, it’s never become a problem.”

“Yet,” Jon says with a sidelong look, and Martin swats at his shoulder. “I thought suffering shared was suffering halved?”

“I wasn’t talking about dance lessons,” Martin groans, but Jon is already on his feet with a wicked look in his eye.

It’s a foregone conclusion, Martin realises distantly. The idea of dancing with Jon is intoxicating. Jon is going to laugh at him but, Christ, how he wants to make Jon laugh. And Jon is teasing him, even ribbing about what Martin said in their most serious conversations.

He is, in fact, looking at a Jonathan Sims who feels safe, if only for a moment. And that Jonathan Sims grabs Martin’s right hand with his left and there’s nothing Martin can do but stand.

“Should I get the first aid kit?” he mutters.

Jon rolls his eyes and shakes his hair back off his face and catches Martin’s other hand in his.

“Closed position,” he explains, putting Martin’s left hand on his shoulder, and Martin does his best to keep breathing.

Jon takes half a step closer still and then his palm is on Martin’s back.

“It’s an awfully basic box-step, to be honest,” he says, frowning vaguely at his own feet. “Six moves, then you’re back to the beginning and you can do it all again.”

“Mhmm,” Martin manages dumbly.

And then Jon clears his throat and puts on a high, nasal voice that startles a laugh from Martin.

“Right foot backward,” he instructs, grinning. “Do you children need to stop and check which is your right foot?”

“Oh, it’s an immersive experience, is it?” Martin jokes, trying to stay focused.

“Left foot diagonally backward,” Jon goes on, and his hands shift a little as he moves, telegraphing his intentions direct to Martin’s skin. “Are you stepping on her feet on purpose, Sims?”

“Were you?”

“That’s not important,” Jon says immediately, sounding like himself for a moment. “Right foot back next to your left. That’s the first half of a box step, which I have imaginatively named a half box.”

The ridiculous voice makes Martin bite back laughter, and he’s sure it sounds nothing like the real Mrs Mendes. There’s no forced empathy or emotional re-living of the past in Jon’s voice, just a teenage boy mocking his schoolteacher, and Martin will never get used to the swelling lightness in his chest of how much he loves this man.

He gets away with his distraction, only stumbling once or twice, because Jon has no gift for subtlety. Every move, every step is glaringly obvious even when Martin doesn’t know what comes next. The gentle pressure from Jon’s hands tells him everything and the shift of Jon’s shoulder under his fingers confirms it. He ducks his head and laughs to himself when he realises he’s actually _cheating_ at _dancing_.

“Is your suffering halved yet?” he teases as Jon slowly guides them across the rug.

“Not yet,” Jon says, glancing up. “I lived through twelve weeks of this.”

“Mm, okay. Can we stop long enough to have dinner, at least?”

“I’ll think about it,” Jon allows, his grin growing wider and his eyes half-closed. “I have to say, I don’t quite believe you’ve never done this before.”

“I thought it would be harder,” Martin says, nodding. “But you said this was pretty basic, I guess.”

“Or perhaps we’ve stumbled on another talent of yours,” Jon says with a hint of pride, and the song slows in the background.

“Shh,” Martin warns. “Don’t want _it_ to hear about my moments of competence.”

“I will keep them as secret as I ever have,” Jon promises, and he finally lets go of Martin to fall back onto the couch.

He looks so relaxed and comfortable he might almost be asleep, and Martin can’t imagine any pain or injury that could be bothering him right now. He pushes the thought aside and collects his notebook and pencils to tidy them away.

—

For the third night in a row, Jon lets Martin braid his hair before they turn in, sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs bracketed by Martin’s. He’d finally agreed that it was worth preventing the twin perils of lying-on-hair and hair-in-mouth, for the both of them.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Martin insists, and Jon makes a noise of assent but doesn’t nod or move his head.

Jon’s hair is, in a word, beautiful. It’s thick and dark and a nuisance to tame, and Martin tries to compromise between being as gentle as possible with the comb and not keeping Jon up any later than necessary. Jon hasn’t said a word of complaint, and Martin hopes that means he’s doing okay.

He’s getting better with practice, and sometimes Jon actually leans toward his hands when he’s sectioning the hair out to start the braid. Martin mentally files those moments away for later and doesn’t stop moving.

When Jon’s chin drifts down toward his chest, Martin finishes off the braid as efficiently as possible, ties it off with the same black hair tie and drops the braid over Jon’s shoulder for inspection.

Jon doesn’t even glance at his hair, leaning sideways and ready to crawl into bed, so Martin does the same.

“Jon.”

“Mm?”

“C’mere?”

Jon does as he’s bid, settling warm around Martin, like a shield.

“Jon?”

“Whassit?”

The routine having been broken, Jon is abruptly awake, halfway to sitting up already and leaning over Martin in the darkness.

“Were you stepping on her feet on purpose?” Martin says innocently.

Jon groans and flops down heavily where he is, one elbow sharp against Martin’s side and his braid draped over Martin’s face.

“Maybe, mm, half the time,” he admits, with a huff of amusement where his face is buried in Martin's arm. “But she started it.”

“Don’t worry, I believe you.”

“Good _night_ , Martin.”

Martin lies awake for a while, replaying the dancing, the jokes, having his hands in Jon’s hair, trying to memorise the feeling of Jon draped over him like another blanket. This is, he thinks, probably the happiest day of his entire life.

—

_Sixth Wednesday_

Rain and hail have been pelting down around the windows all day, making the most wonderfully relaxing sound, but also making Jon scowl at everything in the house and avoid any kind of conversation. He hadn’t eaten until he’d made Martin promise not to do the dishes afterward, and Martin had agreed because he knows that sometimes noise is too much for Jon. The mess can wait.

Jon is currently lying on the sofa, wearing one of Martin’s jumpers over his pyjamas and holding a pillow over his head, so Martin draws on his experience helping his mother when her migraines were bad. He keeps quiet, keeps close by, and keeps a square of paper towel on the saucer of every teacup he brings, like a misplaced napkin to muffle any noise of ceramic against ceramic.

Jon emerges from his cocoon just after midday, once the hail has petered out and left only rain behind, rubbing his eyes and looking briefly surprised at the tea next to him.

“Thank you,” he says, a little hoarse, and Martin smiles over his book as Jon gulps half the cup at once.

“Anything else that might help?” he tries, but Jon just shakes his head.

“I’m still going to to the shops at two,” Jon says decisively. “I thought the weather would let up, but, well.”

“Want any company?” Martin offers. “Probably won’t be anyone else out in this weather, so I could offer a spare hand to hold an umbrella.”

Jon is already shaking his head, his eyes downcast and a crease forming down the middle of his forehead.

“No. No, it’s fine. We don’t need much in the way of food anyway, I just... can’t stay cooped up in here.”

It’s a lie, Martin realises distantly, but he nods anyway. Jon is allowed to lie and it’s not Martin’s business why.

“Fine, up to you,” he says aloud. “I was just offerin—"

“ _Leave it_ , Martin,” Jon says sharply.

There’s silence for a beat while Martin looks at him, then he half-turns in his armchair and goes back to his book without a word. Across the room, Jon squeezes his eyes shut then clamps the pillow over his head again, but Martin is focused on staying where he is, on staying present and solid and tangible, even if Jon’s temper leaves him cold.

He feels the distance between them like ice, or broken glass, or maybe fog. He feels alone, yes, that’s true too. But he _isn’t_ alone. He has never been alone in this cottage, with a stash of knives under the floorboards and a bed he’s shared dozens of times already. This cottage, where Jon had rounded up and hidden every tin containing peaches or prunes from the pantry on their first night and never told Martin where he put them. This cottage, with the worn blue rug they danced on, and the teacups he’s filled a hundred times, and the sofa where he’d finally remembered how to cry again, and the bookshelves full of old novels and half-done crossword books and jigsaw puzzles, and the kitchen where they made lopsided pancakes together. This cottage, with the bedroom where Jon had locked himself in their first week after Seeing things he couldn’t block out, where he’d refused to open the door but had buried his fingers in the soft carpet until they inched through the crack under the door, so Martin had done the same and they’d sat together in different rooms with their backs against the same door and their fingers just barely touching, all afternoon until the sun set and Jon started to breathe easier in the darkness.

Jon gets to his feet and drapes his blanket over Martin’s lap as he passes, a warm olive branch. Martin tucks his feet under him and wraps the blanket closer, and Jon slowly makes his way upstairs to change his clothes. He’s limping a little where he’d twisted his foot on their last walk between the isolated fields and hills surrounding the cottage. With an effort, Martin keeps his opinions on the injury to himself.

—

“Wear your gloves, will you? Please? I’ll get them washed and dried when you get back.”

“Yes, fine, _all right_. I won’t be gone long, you know!”

“It’s too windy for an umbrella, so here, take my raincoat. It has a hood, and it shouldn’t be too long on you.”

“I can actually dress myself, Martin. Will you just... honestly, it’s not important!”

“I’m not asking,” Martin promises, just as stubborn as Jon. “It’s your day. Just try not to come back with frostbite, okay? Do you have your phone?”

Jon swats Martin’s hands away and finishes buttoning the raincoat himself, tucking his scarf inside it and pulling the hood up.

“I haven’t melted in the rain yet. I’ll see you tonight,” he says, and closes the door behind him.

Martin watches out the window as Jon leaves, wishing Basira hadn’t vetoed any attempt to bring a car as far too traceable, trying to calculate some way to get a cab or Uber without phone or internet service, but he just ends up going in circles in his own head.

Fine. That’s fine. He can turn the radio on while Jon is out and get started on the dishes in the sink. That ought to keep him busy for a while and, if he’s still restless afterwards, he can make another attempt at building a fire in the fireplace they’ve barely used. It would be nice to have the place properly warm when Jon returns, instead of just bundling up in layers and blankets all day.

Martin sings along to a few of the tunes and manages to keep himself occupied. There is some dry wood still stacked alongside the fireplace, but he’ll have to fetch more from the woodshed outside by tomorrow. For now, he arranges the pieces in the metal cradle to allow for more air flow, lights a sheet of newspaper crumpled into narrow cone, and coaxes the smaller splinters of wood alight.

He stands on the stone hearth and watches the fire catch and grow and settle in to stay, nudging it with the poker to try to keep the logs balanced, and he feels good. Warm and successful and a little proud. He has plenty of time to fetch his notebook from the bedroom and take another stab at some of the—

Martin puts the poker down and flicks the radio off at the sound of a car pulling up outside, his blood turning cold in his veins. He checks his phone, and only forty minutes have passed since Jon left, so he’s not due back home for at least another twenty, probably more. There’s no sign of lights or sirens, which rules out police or ambulance. Thinking fast, Martin leaves the poker resting in the flames and grabs the untouched iron tongs from the wall, stepping close to the window to peek outside.

The rain is pelting against the glass and the car is parked alongside the house near the window, so he can’t see past it or identify who might be getting out. It could still be nothing but if it isn’t... if Elias has sent someone after them...

A key scrapes in the lock and Martin’s heart stops. Do they have Jon already? Is everything coming crashing down so soon?

“Only me,” Jon says as he cracks the door open, then winces at the sight of Martin standing wide-eyed with the fire tongs clutched in his hand.

Jon lifts a hand and presses it down through the air, palm first. They had agreed that signal meant _nothing supernatural_ or _we’re safe_ , but for a moment that seems incomprehensible. They’ve been _found_.

“Sorry I’m early,” Jon says contritely, and Martin shakes his head and lowers his weapon. “We’ve, uh, actually got company, if you’re decent. Roopashri offered me a lift home and she says she’s baked something for us, so I could hardly say no.”

“Oh, right, fine,” Martin says, hurrying to return the tongs to their place. “I think I’m decent. You didn’t make her wait out in the rain, did you?”

“She’s in the car,” Jon says, and Martin finally processes that Jon isn’t soaked and also isn’t wearing a raincoat.

Maybe the stranger is a friend after all. He rubs his hands over his face and is relieved to find them dry, then glances down and remembers he’s dressed and not in pyjamas, so he nods to Jon.

“Sure, go ahead. I, uh, haven’t exactly tidied up though.”

Jon waves and beckons to someone outside from his spot under the awning. Martin is _not_ hiding in the kitchen, he’s just putting the kettle on which is basic hospitality.

When he emerges, Jon is perched on the back of the sofa and a plump woman with long, dark hair and a kind smile is in his seat. There’s a square dish in the middle of the table, still covered with aluminium foil to keep the rain out and the heat in.

“You must be Martin,” she says cheerfully. “Your Jon has been such a blessing to my family these past few weeks, I can’t tell you.”

Martin blinks and doesn’t comment on the possessive and busies himself with pouring tea.

“Sorry, I’m Roopashri. Or you can call me Roo, if that’s easier.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Roopashri,” Martin says, his brain finally catching up as he takes his seat. “I knew he was up to something, but I don’t think I’ve heard the full story. Sugar?”

“Thank you, dear,” she says, and accepts the sugar bowl with another one of those smiles and Martin finds himself smiling back without even thinking. “But let’s start with the important news. This is cherry cobbler, and I thought it might go some way toward thanking Jon for his kindness.”

“You’ll have to stay and have some,” Jon says, though he hasn’t taken his eyes off Martin. “I can get plates and forks and, maybe a knife to cut it?”

“That would be perfect, Jon,” she says, peeling off the foil and revealing the mouthwatering smell of fruit and a golden-brown crust. “You see, Martin, I met Jon four weeks ago at the grocery store, when my son and I were in a tight spot. I lost my job the month before, and I applied for benefits but that takes such a long time, so money was... well, you know. And here this man comes up and pays for my groceries, doesn’t even ask me any questions!”

“That, I can believe,” Martin says fondly, and the last of the adrenaline starts to seep out of him.

The house is warm and Jon is safe and Roopashri is talking animatedly about her son, Vihaan, who is almost three and currently at daycare. Jon reappears to serve the cobbler and it tastes incredible, sweet and tart and warm. Martin loses the thread of the conversation for a minute, just savouring the taste and the indulgence. When he remembers to pay attention, he learns that Jon even helped carry and entertain Vihaan when Roopashri couldn’t pay for his daycare sessions and so brought him along for grocery shopping, and that Roopashri’s new job is in communications for a farming co-op in the area, which she is already enjoying thoroughly.

It all makes sense at last, and Martin is satisfied in more ways than one. Jon is as friendly as Martin has ever seen him, and Roopashri laughs at even his most sarcastic comments, so Martin can understand why they get along so well. When Roopashri finally takes her leave to pick up her son from daycare, she hugs each of them and leaves her address with Jon to return the baking dish whenever they’re done with it. After stacking the dishes by the sink, Martin stops to watch the fire dance, so peaceful and content he could almost fall asleep on his feet.

“Martin,” Jon says, and it sounds like the second or third time he’s said it, his voice tight and uncomfortable. “Please sit down.”

“Everything okay?” he says softly, settling on the couch beside Jon.

“I just need to talk to you for a minute,” Jon says, making no move to close the distance between them.

That seems like a fairly serious downside to having lit a fire.

“What’s wrong? Is it the noise?” Martin says worriedly.

“No, it’s not that. Just... First of all, I’m sorry. Today did not... go as planned. At all. And you thought we were in danger. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh! Oh, Jon, that’s not your fault,” Martin says, shaking his head. “I mean, I can’t think of any way you could have warned me either. Just one of the consequences of living in a safe house.”

“If I hadn’t let her give me a lift home,” Jon starts to argue, and Martin just sighs.

“I’m glad you did,” he points out. “She’s a nice woman, and you did a good thing, and now there’s cobbler in our fridge. No complaints from me.”

Jon is quiet for a moment, wringing his hands in the blanket draped over his lap.

“Well,” he says slowly. “If you’re not angry with me. The other thing is... you knew, didn’t you?”

Martin shrugs, because Jon is still staring at him intently and he can’t guess where this conversation is leading.

“I had a few suspicions,” he admits. “I knew there was something you weren’t telling me, because you came home looking like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”

“But you didn’t _ask_ ,” Jon presses. “You even said you weren’t going to ask, today. You didn’t think I’d been framed for another murder, or found another damn coffin or something.”

“No,” Martin agrees. “I knew it wasn’t something that would get the police involved, or put us in danger, or attract... the wrong sort of attention.”

“How?”

Jon’s voice is confident, prompting, like he’s winning an argument.

“You don’t lie if it’s going to put someone else in danger,” Martin explains, though it’s obvious. “You lie if you’re in danger, whether of being embarrassed or dying. I know that.”

Jon snaps his fingers, sitting up straighter on the couch and Martin just watches, bemused.

“You trust me,” Jon pronounces with deadly seriousness. “You knew I was lying to you, and you thought about it, and you decided to trust _me_. I am not exactly a trustworthy person.”

“Is that your argument? Really?”

“Trusting me is irrational.”

“We sleep in the same bed, you could have killed me by now if you wanted to,” Martin says dryly.

“ _Martin_ ,” Jon says, and suddenly his voice is breathless and shaky. “Y-you love me.”

Martin blinks and feels the smile slip from his face.

“You knew that,” he sighs. “You listened to the tapes. That’s old news.”

“No, that’s not... I knew you _loved_ me,” Jon says with a kind of desperation. “But you... you _love_ me.”

Jon pushes his hair back from his face so he can keep his eyes on Martin’s, dark and searching. He smells like rain and cherries and his lips are gentle where they brush across the corner of Martin’s mouth.

Martin takes a deep, shuddering breath like he’s just come up for air. Jon hasn’t backed away, still leaning awkwardly across the couch so that, if Martin tilted his head just a little, they’d be kissing.

Again.

They’d be kissing _again_.

“Oh,” Martin murmurs. “ _Oh_. You... love me too?”

Jon kisses him again, slower and warmer and, when Martin reaches for him, he curls himself into Martin’s lap and settles the blanket over both of them. Martin wraps both arms around him to keep him close and then he’s grinning so wide he can hardly return the kisses.

“I love you,” he says, by way of explanation.

“I know,” Jon says softly, leaning his forehead against Martin’s. “You were willing to attack a single mother with a pair of fire tongs for me.”

“ _Jon_...” Martin huffs, rolling his eyes.

“I love you too,” Jon amends. “Have you stopped smiling long enough to kiss me yet?”

Martin hasn’t, but they make do.

_—_

Night falls all too quickly, and the fire burns down to embers in the fireplace. Jon makes peanut butter sandwiches for dinner, for fear of burning anything they try to cook, and Martin adds peanut butter and tea to the list of flavours that taste better from Jon’s lips, along with cherries. They crowd into the tiny bathroom together and Jon stands in the tub to brush his teeth rather than waiting his turn. Moments later, Martin adds spearmint toothpaste to the list.

When they slide under the blankets together, warm and clean and safe, Jon’s hair freshly braided, Jon plasters himself across Martin’s back without a word. Suddenly, there are tears in Martin’s eyes.

“She said four weeks ago,” he murmurs, lifting Jon’s hand to his mouth. “Not three?”

“Four,” Jon confirms against the back of Martin’s shoulder. “But I thought the first time was a once-off, I suppose. Just in the right place at the right time. I told her I’d be there next week if she needed anything else, and that’s when we got to chatting.”

“Of course. You weren’t acting guilty, so I didn’t realise right away. And you were still buying chocolate biscuits, then,” Martin says with a sleepy smile.

“Oh, well. That...” Jon clears his throat, sounding embarrassed. “I know it doesn’t really put a dent in the extra money I spent, but I thought it might help a little. Better than nothing, maybe?”

Martin rolls over as carefully as he can to stop Jon’s defensive rambling in its tracks.

“It’s good,” he promises, after half a dozen more kisses. “You did what I would have done. At the very least you deserve decent tea and biscuits as a reward.”

“This is... nice,” Jon says, glancing down at their positions. “If you want, we could try... sleeping like this instead?”

“Are you sure?” Martin lifts his arm automatically to make sure Jon doesn’t feel trapped.

“Not really,” Jon says with a shrug and a dry laugh. “But I... I like it, so we could try.”

“We can try anything,” Martin agrees, gathering Jon close again until Jon tucks his face into Martin’s throat. “Oh, I meant... anything you want. I’m not going to, um, _try anything_ try anything...”

Jon is laughing and Martin can feel the way he shakes his head.

“I know, Martin,” he says, serious and impossibly fond at the same time. “I trust you, too.”

\--


End file.
